


From The Ashes

by dixiehellcat



Series: Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [10]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, BAMF Pepper Potts, Gen, Happy Hogan is a Good Bro, Lady Knight Pepper Potts, Post-Scanran War (Tortall), false imprisonment, pre-Pepperony? more likely than you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:26:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26076409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dixiehellcat/pseuds/dixiehellcat
Summary: For Tony Stark Flash Bingo, card 020, prompt 'Fantasy AU'A lady knight and her companions investigate rumors a defeated enemy is rising, and she rescues an unusual prisoner from a bespelled lair.
Series: Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765129
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21
Collections: Tony Stark Flash Bingo





	From The Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Another of those mashups I so enjoy. For MCU fans, I hope I've included enough exposition woven in as we go for you to know what's going on. (You will likely notice a few Easter eggs along the way. lol) For Tortall fans, you don't have to know anything about Marvel to follow the story, I hope!

As her horse pushed through underbrush to get back to the road, Lady Knight Virginia of Potts Crossing tried not to grumble. Every new-made knight of Tortall knew that earning one’s shield was more a ticket to hard work than to glory, and fighting her way along this neglected stretch of the Scanran border on patrol with four other knights was definitely that. At least there had been no overt hostilities from Tortall’s northern neighbor since the end of the war with them, but the peace was uneasy. For every glimmer of hope, like Scanran diplomats crossing to negotiate trade terms or educational opportunities, there was a darker sign, like the one that had sent them out here.

Reports from the Shadow Service’s best spy had it that Maggur Rathhausak, the Scanran king who had made war on Tortall, was in hiding, plotting to reconstitute his power, reunite fractious tribes and clans, and attack again. Rumors even ran among the smallfolk that the warlord’s mage, Blayce the Gallan, had risen from the grave, gathered his fellows, and was rebuilding his ‘killing devices’, the giant mechanical warriors that had wrought destruction on Tortall’s army. Magic could do a lot, but Virginia was pretty sure that any instances of resurrection were either tricks or mighty deeds by those more powerful than any human. The lady knight Keladry of Mindelan had slain the Gallan, and dead he was going to stay.

That didn’t mean another mage might not be using his name, though, or any of his notes that might have escaped destruction; and that was what her patrol was investigating. Raiders had been sneaking over the border, attacking villages and abducting locals. Most were likely bound for slave markets, but several children had been taken too, and children had been the Gallan’s main and most horrible target, for he had used their souls to power his artificial warriors. Virginia fought back a shudder at the thought, patted her mount Strawberry on her shoulder, and checked to be sure her sword was loose in its scabbard. 

For the past two days, the immediate area had been quiet, and Sir James Rhodes, their patrol’s leader, had said they would move on along the border if that continued. They couldn’t get that lucky, of course. “Rhodey?” Sir Steven Rogers said softly (several noble sons named James had all entered knight training at once, several years ago, so all had ended up nicknamed). “Over there?” Now that Virginia concentrated, she heard what Steve did: a rustle, a horse’s whuff, the tread of booted feet. The locals knew the patrol was here and knew to announce themselves, so that had to be either lost travelers, or folk who had no business here. 

Rhodey heard it too; he halted the patrol with a raised hand and turned his horse’s head to step off into the woods. A moment later, he cried out, “Ho! You there, halt, in the name of the king!”

Virginia spurred her horse after the call, the other three knights hot on her heels. She hunched low over Strawberry’s neck as the roan mare, well-trained, dodged low-hanging tree branches. There didn’t seem to be a skirmish going on; instead, the intruders appeared to be fleeing. To reach Scanra, however, they were going to have to pass through disputed ground, and if Virginia knew Rhodey, that was where he would try to corner them. 

She burst from the trees onto a swath of what looked to be overgrown farmland, a small barn half falling apart in its middle. Five riders led by a big one in a red cloak raced toward the structure with Rhodey right behind. Virginia nodded once—she loved being right—but just then, the riders whirled, drew swords and closed with their pursuers. _So, I was wrong_ , she gulped to herself the instant before the battle was joined. She dropped her reins, pulled her blade, and brought her shield up with her off hand, guiding Strawberry with her knees as they danced in and out. 

After just a few moments, she realized the Scanrans weren’t so much trying to kill them as injure and stall them. Red cloak split off and fled around the side of the structure while his fellows pushed the knights back toward the woods. “Something’s in that barn!” she called to Rhodey in between blows. “Something they don’t want us to get to!”

The next instant, a loud shout went up from beyond the building, and the remaining marauders broke and fled. Virginia gave chase, her friend Sir Harold Hogan beside her. They rounded the barn and spied the raiders in flight. In their midst was one more horse bearing a figure in the black robes of a mage, and voices drifted back to them as though in argument. “The boy, the boy!” one cried. 

The rest of her patrol caught up but paused only an instant. “Quill, Rogers, to me!” Rhodey called. “Potts, you and Hogan search this place. Watch your backs! They guarded it so closely, there may be gear in there, or captives, or magic.”

“Sir!” Virginia saluted and Rhodey galloped off with the other two knights. She swung down to the ground, led Strawberry to a likely-looking patch of grass just within eyeshot, and hobbled her; the horse immediately took advantage of the chance for a snack. 

“Great,” Harold grunted as he dismounted and settled his big gelding beside her to crop. “I’d almost rather be pounding after those scoundrels. You know I’m not built for stealth.”

With a fond snort, Virginia pushed her helmet visor up and pulled a pouch of dried fruit from her saddlebags. Offering him some, she said quietly, “Let’s give it a bit, in case somebody’s hiding in there; let them think it’s safe to come out.” 

They did, but no one emerged. “I expect we’d best get it over with,” Harold said and trudged to the barn’s broad back door. Lifting the big wooden bar, he went on, “Mithros willing, we’ll find nothing worse than some irritated chickens—” He swung the door open and halted. Virginia stepped up beside him to peer in—at a fully equipped wardroom, or the remains of one. It was well lit and swept, and considerably larger than the inside of a smallish, dilapidated old barn should have been. “I think I read a tale like this, when I was a boy,” Harold said after a moment’s mutual dumbfounded silence. “Except it was a magicked bag that held whatever you put into it and never grew bigger.”

“Well,” Virginia returned, “looks like we have a lot more space to search than we thought.” They propped the door open, just so whatever spell was cast on the interior wouldn’t try to shut them in, and set to work. There were bunks and a stove and table and chairs in the main space; and just off that, a lavish bedchamber, with books stacked beside a traveling desk.

“The lair of the mage who set this all up,” Harold guessed, brushing a wary finger across the volumes’ covers. “The robe we saw them hauling away, that was likely him. Not thrilled to have had his work, whatever it was, interrupted.”

Virginia poked her head through another door and froze. “I think I know what that work was,” she said slowly. Harold hustled over and she stepped aside to show him a mage’s workspace, well-lit but wrecked. Smashed pieces of metal and bone were thrown all over the floor. “When I was a page, I saw pictures of the Gallan’s killing devices, drawn by knights who came back from the Scanran War. Their parts looked very much like this.” She paced through the room, almost on tiptoe, gazing at the broken stalks and pieces of blades that could have been limbs and lethal fingers. “Maybe he didn’t have time to magic them down to take with them, so he destroyed them to keep us from using them.”

“As if we would,” Harold shook his head, then pointed. “More gear in there, you think?” A door in the opposite wall was locked, but a ring of keys hung on a hook beside. “Bad way to keep folk out, that.”

Her hand halfway to plucking the keys down, Virginia stopped. “Not a bad way to keep something in, though.” Harold backed up, but she continued her motion and took down the ring.

“Ginia, don’t—”

“Cover me,” she said, her native curiosity ablaze, and opened the door. Inside, enough light filtered in through a small barred window to make out a tiny room. It was bare, though marks on the walls and floor indicated furnishings had been removed at some point. In one corner, a figure slumped. The head bore a helmet, but the body was far too slight to have any kind of armor on. “Hail, there,” she called. The form jerked, its hands flew up and the clank of metal sounded; but in the next instant she realized the noise came from a short length of chain linked to cuplike steel coverings fastened where hands or gauntlets should be. They halted at the helmet, then bashed into it, accompanied by a muffled snarl. Virginia caught her breath. “Looks like you were right. The mage did want to keep someone in.” 

She crouched beside the figure; a male, dressed in rags and skinny as a spear shaft. Another chain ran from the wall to a collar clamped around the neck. Harold, battleax in hand, was still suspicious, but joined her when she pointed that out. “They put those on him to keep him from working his way loose, you think?” he murmured, inclining his head toward the restraints trapping the captive’s hands. Virginia nodded curtly, her anger at such brutality simmering. “He’d have to have some skilled fingers, for them to go to those lengths.” He holstered his ax to take the oddly made headgear between his big palms and examine it. It incorporated no visor or faceplate, only a hinge at the top and a line of small holes down either side for air. When the prisoner tried to jerk away, he pitched his voice toward those spaces. “Hold there, good fellow, we aren’t here to do you hurt.”

“Can you hear us?” Virginia added when the figure’s arms flailed in Harold’s general direction. “We’re going to try to get you out of these.” The struggling stopped, and another noise came from the helmet. This time it was higher pitched and almost pleading in tone, and the pinioned arms extended in her general direction. “Ah, you can hear me, good. Hold still.” She took the nearer arm, gave it a reassuring pat and set to work finding the release. There were two, one on either side, with a hinge at the top like the hood, and once she popped it off, she found the shackles were a separate unit, still locked in place. “We’ll get the other off and then these irons,” she told the man. 

The hand revealed was callused and rough, so their mystery man was a laborer. His fingers, as Harold had surmised, looked nimble; they flexed and stretched, then brushed against her skin and clutched at her wrist as though in gratitude. 

Uncovering the other hand took only a few more moments, and then Virginia turned her attention to the steel hood where Harold was still fumbling. “Your hands are smaller,” he grumped and stood, “and this way I can be on guard in case our little friend here tries to pull any tricks.”

“He hardly looks to be in any condition for that,” Virginia retorted while she undid the trickier latches on the helm and went to open and remove it. Something inside seemed to stick, for a second, before a faint slurping noise could be heard. With a sinking feeling in her gut, she connected it to the inarticulate vocalizations that were all they had heard from the captive, and glanced inside the front of the contraption. As suspected, a large, padded leather tongue, damp with spittle, projected just where it would be positioned to fill the wearer’s mouth and silence him. Her blood boiled, and she flung the ghastly thing aside, then turned to meet the biggest darkest eyes she had ever beheld.

Said eyes blinked long lashes the fairest ladies of court would envy, then squinted and looked from her to Harold. “Knights. Well, isn’t this right out of a tale! I suppose it is a tale, I’ve finally lost what was left of my mind and imagined myself heroic rescuers, eh?”

Harold was still watching closely, but the man’s words pulled a chuckle from him. “I’m rather too substantial to be anybody’s fancy, I fear,” he rumbled.

Virginia felt around behind her for the ring of keys, not taking her gaze from the man. Partly it was understandable caution, like Harold, but partly it was that as unwashed and abused as he was, he was still a pleasant sight. He was darker than most Scanrans, his shaggy hair curling and stuck to his head with sweat. Forcing down the welter of emotions the picture roused in her, she found the keys and ran her fingers along the steel choker lightly, to keep from hurting the skin scraped raw under and around it. In a moment she found the hinge and keyhole, but couldn’t crane her neck around well enough to work it open while fully armored. She laid the keys down long enough to pull her own helmet off and toss her ginger braid over her shoulder, at the exact instant the man’s eyes finally seemed to adjust to light and focused in on her. “Dear Gods, you’re a woman!” he gasped, then added, “I honestly, I couldn’t have called that. Or concocted it. What is my brain doing? Sending me an imaginary lady to rescue me—”

“That’s lady _knight_ to you,” Harold snapped, and Virginia shifted from repressing a tart retort to repressing a smile. Sir Hogan had always been a vigilant guard of her position. “She earned her knighthood just as I and every other did, so you best watch your tongue, stranger.”

“You’re a happy one for me to hallucinate. Thanks a lot, brain,” the captive muttered. Virginia pulled the collar from his neck and followed suit more quickly with the cuffs that bound his wrists, and his string of chatter halted. “Wait. You’re—actually here.” His hand closed on hers again, his eyes widened to take up most of his painfully thin face, and he licked his suddenly tremulous lips. “Knights, you say. Knights of Tortall?” 

“Yes.” They helped him up and out into the smashed-up workshop. He tried to conceal a grimace at the sight of the shattered machinery, but Virginia caught it. She also noted a flicker of something like hope when they told him the Scanran mage and his party had fled, though his gaze dropped the next moment. “And you?” she queried after they explained the circumstances. “How came you to be held in a magicked lair, in such dire straits?”

“I?” He waved a hand. “I am, ah, only a poor merchant, from Tyra. I was on the road north when bandits beset me, and I found myself in that pitiful excuse for lodging. The bastards took every coin I had, or I’d gladly repay you for your kindness.”

It wasn’t a very good attempt at deflection. Virginia hiked an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like a Tyran accent.”

“How would you know?” he challenged. “I’m a merchant. I travel a lot. I mean, a LOT a lot. Rarely in the same place twice, or for more than a few days. Who has time to develop an accent? So many more interesting things to do, like—like merchanting!”

Virginia folded her arms. “My family’s fief isn’t large, but two major roads run through it. We host travelers from all over the Eastern and Southern Lands. You look rather Tyran, but you aren’t.”

“Half Tyran,” he mumbled with a glare, “on my mother’s side.”

“And the other half isn't Tortallan, or you wouldn’t have reacted to me with shock.”

“Fine!” he burst out with a dramatic fling of his arms. “I’m Scanran. Satisfied, lady knight Know-It-All? I was, um, just visiting. This whole thing was a big misunderstanding. I appreciate being rescued, and I’ll be on my way—”

“Not so fast,” Harold stepped up. He was so soft-spoken that people sometimes underestimated him—and forgot his size. When he chose to, however, he could cut quite an intimidating figure, and clearly now, as he towered over the smaller man, he chose to. “The way your eyes scanned this space when we led you out here—you knew well what was in here, and perhaps were not thrilled to see it destroyed. There’s dirt under your nails, too, and splinters of metal and bone in your hands.” 

Out here in the better light, Virginia did see the slivers caught in the cuts that littered his fingers and palms. “You’re good, Harold,” she said. 

He shrugged. “I picked up a few investigating tricks from dating a provost guard. So! Evidence would point toward your being a confederate of yon runaway mage, and mayhap did this damage yourself to hide your vile projects. What have you to say for yourself, or has your tongue gone numb when confronted?”

He moved forward, driving his quarry before him until halted by a workbench. “Hold up there, Sir Happy!” the freed captive cried. “Yes, but no. I didn’t smash anything. I was forced to labor for Stane, I—I didn’t deal with him willingly!”

“Harold,” Virginia forestalled him with a hand to his shoulder when he would have pressed. “He may be telling the truth. I noticed he seemed relieved when he learned they had fled. Besides, we saw the mage’s quarters—he lacked for nothing. That cell, though, was for a prisoner, not an accomplice. Which begs the question, who are you, and why are you here?” she finished with a hard look at the man, in spite of her sympathy for his condition.

He shivered a bit, and rubbed nervously at his chest, where beneath his tattered shirt Virginia spied something round, about palm-sized. Neither she nor Harold had a head for magic, but Rhodey had enough Gift to detect it; she resolved to keep an eye on the object, likely a pendant of some sort, until he and the others returned. “The mage is Obadiah, of clan Stane,” he said after a moment, his dark eyes fixed on some middle distance. “He was Blayce Younger’s apprentice, and he had mastered some of the skills needed to recreate the killing devices. Emphasis on _some_. So when Maggur called upon him to continue his mentor’s work, he panicked. He had a grasp of the basic magic involved, but he had to have someone expert at construction, at designing and building such machinery, a master mechanic.

“Funny thing. The king’s armorer, Howard of clan Stark, had great talent along those lines. He sat on the great council too, and wouldn’t you just know it, after you Tortallans won the war and Maggur was driven into hiding, there was talk of Howard being put forth to take the Bloody Throne. Obviously, killing him was the logical solution to that problem. It seemed a shame to waste the man’s talent, though, and Maggur first gained the throne by way of taking hostages and threatening their families. So he thought he’d stick to his usual means of operation: seize Howard, give him over to Stane as a helper, and hold that over the heads of Howard’s wife and son to ensure their continued backing. What he didn’t know until he sent spies to investigate was, Howard was good, yes, but his son, Anthony? Was better, much better.” 

He scrubbed one dirty hand over his scruffy face. “I helped my father make weapons. We needed to do our part to protect our land, I was told, and I believed it. But I—I found I had more to offer this land than just making things that slay others. I wanted to build things that made life better for my people. I had ideas, for equipment to make mining safer and less back-breaking, to make ships sturdier and easier to steer, to make our barren land farmable, to…well, never mind, that’s all gone anyway. All Maggur saw was a mind and two hands he could enslave to his service, and that’s what he did.” A bitter laugh escaped his throat. “I could’ve told the damn idiot, if he’d bothered to ask, that it wouldn’t work so well. Howard and I didn’t get along; he tolerated me because I was his only child, his heir, but he wanted me to get my head out of the clouds, to focus on sharper swords and straighter spears and more accurate arrows. Taking me hostage to ensure his good behavior? Not a productive idea.

“I resisted, any way I could, but between the threat to my parents—Howard infuriated me but I didn’t want his death on my account, much less my mother’s—and Stane’s, ah,” he faltered and winced, “his magical means of persuasion, I was obliged to submit. Even so, I delayed in every way possible, hoping to escape and make it home, building things on the side that would help, until the day Stane came to me gloating, and told me my—my parents were dead, both of them, by the hand of Maggur’s minions. Whether they did something that displeased the bastard, or he just wanted to ensure I knew I had no hope of ever again seeing the light of day, I don’t know. Either way, he assumed I was broken. 

“Assuming is never a good thing, especially where a Stark is concerned, for we are made of iron. I made to escape him, that night. Didn’t get far, was dragged back here and—” he tilted his head toward the cell—“was placed in the condition in which you good folk found me. Not sure how many days ago that was…several, if my rough beard and empty stomach tell me true.” His battered fingers clenched onto the edge of the workbench behind him; he winced and sucked in a deep breath, then released his grip and straightened, lifting his chin with dignity equal to any member of the blood royal. “So there, you have my own true tale now, as a last bequest. I trust, lady knight, that that sword of yours is sharp enough, and your fair hand steady enough, to dispatch me to the Peaceful Realms quickly. I’m a bit of a coward where pain is concerned.”

“Um…what?” Virginia frowned.

“Oh, you needn’t play a game of false nobility. I am Scanran, and my hand likely forged the weapons that killed some of your brothers in arms—well, and sisters maybe, I wouldn’t know, so, no offense meant, but I know full well, a mercifully swift execution is the best boon I can expect, or could beg.” He met her gaze squarely, before he screwed his eyes shut.

A lengthy moment of stunned silence was broken when Harold began to swear, loudly and at some length. “I didn’t know you knew all those words,” Virginia remarked, her tone mild to conceal her own shock and horror.

The man’s eyes popped open. “ _I_ don’t know some of those words!” he exclaimed, sounding almost indignant. “Who do you spend time with, Sir Happy?”

Harold didn’t slow down. “You think we would kill you out of hand?? If you’re telling the truth, you’re as much a victim of King Maggot as any Tortallan who fell opposing him. We…uh, well, what _were_ we planning to do, Virginia?”

“Virginia? Bah, you’re nowhere near passive enough to deserve that name,” the man scoffed. “You should be Blaze, or Helia, or Fiyeros!” She strove to ignore the sparkle in his eyes now, and the quirky smile he summoned despite facing what he clearly believed to be his end.

“We…could have sent you home with a stern warning,” she said slowly, thinking as she went, “but from what you say you don’t really have a home to go back to. Judging from what we know of Maggur, if he killed your family, he would have given their holdings over to one of his cronies.”

The man nodded sharply. “It was only them, and me, and a few servants who were taken and sold, Stane said, except for Jarvis, the house manager who practically raised me. He refused to yield, and they—they cut him down where he stood, like some animal. Stane and Maggur put about some yarn or other about me, I don’t know what and frankly don’t care. As to whether I have any kin in Tyra, don’t know that either.”

“The boy!” Harold said suddenly. “Ginia, remember, when that lot were fleeing, one of them was yelling something about a boy. If they give Rhodey and the lads the slip—”

“They’ll come back,” Virginia said grimly. “They won’t want to lose your skills that easily—Anthony, is it?”

“Just call me Tony.”

“And we wouldn't send you back within reach of Scanran hostiles, especially not now, knowing your story. You’d best come with us then, Tony. Yes, Harold, I know, Rhodey will have a fit. He’ll get over it.”

“Who or whatever a Rhodey is, he won’t be the only one to have a fit,” Tony warned, the momentary relief in his expression crushed. “You may be inclined to show me mercy, but your rulers won’t.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure," she cautioned. "We have someone in Corus with the Sight, who can confirm your account is true.” 

The mention of magical means of detecting lies, Virginia suspected, would elicit some anxiety if the man actually was lying; but he only bobbed his head. “Okay. Okay, that’s fine. I haven’t much to take with me, but a few tools and clothes. I’ll be right back,” he finished and hastened back into the cell, pulling the door half-shut behind him.

Virginia and Harold (who she was tempted to start calling Happy; it really did suit him) looked at each other, then around at the wrecked workroom full of scraps of tech and magic. Seconds dragged out, the silence broken only by faint shuffling and an occasional clink of metal from the cell as Tony gathered his things. Suddenly Happy started, and clutched his ax. “What was that?” he mouthed and gestured toward a far corner of the space.

A beat before she was about to say some reassuring nonsense, something moved in the corner, then emerged into the middle of the room. At first glance, it looked like the killing devices of story, but was only half the size, and without the blade-wielding arms or mace tail of the sketches Virginia had seen. It only had one arm, in fact, tipped with a clawlike clasp that swiveled as it trod on four short legs. It paused some feet away, facing them, not attacking, and the claw rotated this way and that, for all the world like an inquisitive woodland animal. “Uh, uh…” Happy stammered, just as Tony stepped back into the workroom with a small bundle tucked under one arm.

The thing peeped and rushed toward him. Happy yelled, took a grip on his ax and swung. Tony yelped too and lunged forward, but to throw himself between the knight and the mechanism. The blade whizzed past his face and Virginia nearly cried out herself. “He won’t hurt you,” Tony panted, blocking the thing as protectively as a parent over a youngling. “He’s not one of those _things_. Stane never touched him, I built him and made him, well, functional, more or less, with skill, not magic. No child died to make him. Here, I’ll show you.” 

He fished a tool out of the bundle he still clutched and dropped the rest to the floor with a stifled clatter. “C’mere, Dummy, and hold still,” he said and with no more preparation than that, pried a plate off the top front of the contraption’s apparent head, just behind the claw. From what Virginia knew from listening to veterans’ accounts, opening the ‘skull’ of a killing device released the trapped soul powering it and rendered the automaton useless; but nothing emerged from this one. There was no white mist. Tony patted the thing, and it straightened up and cocked its trephined head at them again, looking as curious as they were. “He’s not smart enough to be turned loose in battle,” Tony explained, “and Stane isn’t smart enough to know how the Gallan made the others, so the children he had his underlings steal were—were sold.” He stared down at his filthy bare feet, as though in shame. “I couldn’t save them—the best I could do was to persuade Stane he was better off getting a little extra coin for them, rather than killing them since he wasn’t ready to use them, and reaping nothing. So. At least they’re alive, I hope, someplace.”

“Okay…” Happy continued to eye the device with distrust. “So what’re you gonna do with it?”

“He can follow us,” Tony said blithely while he replaced the head plate. “If you’re right and Stane’s men come back, and I suspect you are right, lady knight Fireball—nah, not Fireball, that’s not quite right—Anyway, they don’t know he exists, so they’d either destroy him immediately, or carry him off to disassemble, which, same thing, basically. He’s kind of a scaredy-cat, which is partly my fault, since I’ve had him hiding since I built him, but letting Stane know I’d managed to create a machine that responded similarly to the devices he demanded from me, but without needing a blood sacrifice for his spells, wasn’t an option, obviously. I promised Dummy when I activated him that I’d take care of him, and not let him be hurt, and I won’t break my promise.”

Virginia wasn’t sure how serious Scanrans were about oaths, nor how that might apply to something that wasn’t strictly speaking alive; but she knew this odd Scanran seemed as serious as a sickness about his word. “Sorry to say, it’s not for us to decide if your—friend—comes with us,” she admitted. “You make a good point about not leaving an operating sample of your work here for the mage and his men to examine, but our patrol leader will make that call when—” 

She broke off at the sound of harsh voices growling at each other in the Scanran tongue, and rough feet approaching at speed. Five warriors appeared in the open doorway, the same from before she would bet, with the red cloak at the head, and their instant of surprise gave the Tortallans precious time to bring their weapons to bear. In the next breath Virginia was battling a huge fighter, ducking and spinning and using all her skill, her speed and dexterity keeping her in his teeth. Happy howled and swung his ax like he was a berserker himself. From somewhere, Tony had produced a long dagger and employed it to good effect until it was knocked from his hand; then he dove for his tool bundle on the floor and came up with a short length of tubing with a grip at one end. Before she had time to wonder what on earth he was about, fletched darts began to fly out the open end with precise aim and unerring accuracy, harrying the attackers and distracting them.

Despite all their efforts, the numbers were unevenly matched. As hard as Virginia fought, she couldn’t hold them back when a second adversary came at her. Two others were paired and clanging at Harold’s armored bulk. She grasped their plan a bare instant before red cloak dodged around both knights and backhanded Tony hard across the face. The little dart-shooting weapon went flying, and the big marauder threw the smaller man bodily over his shoulder. With a shout, he spun and made for the door while his fellows pressed their advantage to hold off pursuit.

One glimpse of Tony struggling, his bleeding face twisted in fear, made Virginia’s vision blur from rage. A shriek tore from her throat as she flung herself at both her opponents; one fell with a gurgle and she downed the other with a smash between his eyes from the flat of her blade. She charged for the door, knowing with a sick certainty she couldn’t beat the abductor there—she had rescued Tony, took responsibility for his safety, and now she was going to lose him. His head rose and their eyes met, the instant before red cloak lunged; but instead of racing out the door with his captive, his feet left the floor and he sprawled headlong on the floor with a mighty crash, as though struck by a blow. As he fell, Tony was flung backward away from him forcefully; he hit one of the two fighters attacking Happy, their limbs got tangled, and both fell to the floor too. 

The last Scanran standing braced himself to deliver with his broadsword, but never got to complete the maneuver before chunks of debris from the torn-up workshop began to rain down. Virginia dove for Tony and they tumbled across the floor away from the epicenter of the clash. Happy jumped aside too, while their hapless foes, the two still alive and conscious anyway, yelped and tried to protect their heads. The yells just seemed to focus the barrage, and moments later they were out cold, with swelling goose-eggs on their skulls. 

Virginia started to pat Tony down, to see if he was injured. Sprawled over his torso, she could feel it harder than she expected, solid as steel. One touch on his shoulder, though, had him pulling away abruptly. “I’m fine,” he insisted, and scrambled to his feet. She followed, a little stung at his reaction, and it must have shown on her face. “I am, really. Nothing like a foolish aggressor to cushion one’s fall,” he added with a spit on the unconscious fighter in question. “And nothing like an extra friend to help out in time of need!” he added with a pleased look past Happy.

Sure enough, the mechanism Tony had called Dummy held a big chunk of metal-encased wood in its—his—claw. He peeped and squeaked, seeming as proud as any living being would be. Tony persuaded him they were safe for the moment and he could put his improvised projectile down and help them drag the Scanrans into the cell. “So,” Virginia said briskly when their foes were safely locked in, “this wasn’t exactly what we had planned, but it proves our guess out. Clearly Scanra values you, Tony, and would pay dearly in the blood of their fighters to get you back.”

“And your buddy here too,” Happy added with a hint of gloom. “Which means we’d better take you both along.”

“Thought that was a given,” Tony replied, sitting on the floor stuffing a pair of boots he had purloined from one fighter, to make them at least serviceable for his smaller feet. Virginia didn’t see the round necklace-like object anymore, but judging from his newly bulky shoulders, it looked like Tony was wearing every shirt he owned, pitifully few and worn as they were, so it was probably under those. For him to be guarding it so well, she suspected it was a memento of his dead parents, so she let it go for now. If he had wanted to do them harm, he could certainly have made common cause with his would-be rescuers and turned on them. Granted, she supposed he could be a spy, but if so, she reflected as he pulled the boots on and stomped around a bit to settle them, his skill rivaled Natasha, the best one she knew.

“It is,” she noted with an inner pang of sympathy. Her family wasn’t the richest in Tortall by far, but she had always had more than enough. From Tony’s account, his clan had been one of privilege, if balanced on the constant knife’s edge that life in Scanra seemed to be. To be torn from them, to know his parents and retainers had died and been helpless to defend them, and to be reduced to this, must have been unbearable. No wonder he built himself a friend, she thought, watching him go to the shining metal creature and pat him and smile with approval.

“Rhodey’s gonna kill us both,” Happy mourned.

At that, the device perked up from where it bent with its single spindly arm wrapped around Tony’s shoulders, and tweeted in a tone easily read as anger. “Don’t say that out loud,” Virginia cautioned, amused despite herself. “Dummy there was careful to aim precisely to avoid hitting either of us. It seems he’s decided he needs to protect us too.” She finished cleaning her sword and sheathed it. “Let’s get out of here, so we can be ready to explain ourselves when the others get back.”

“I can explain myself just fine, thank you,” Tony huffed as they made their way outside. His feigned pique dissolved, though, the instant sunlight hit his face, and he looked around at the sky and trees and soil like a hungry man set before a feast. “I’m fairly sure I can walk, depending on how far your camp is.”

“I think one of us can accommodate you,” Virginia smiled. “I’m lighter, but Happy—I mean Sir Harold’s steed is stouter.”

“Happy! You dare!” the other knight snorted, but his smile gave away his true opinion.

Tony paused, seeming a bit surprised. “That’d—that’d be fine. Thank you. I, uh, I’m sorry, my lady knight, about my brusqueness earlier, I know you meant well, but I’ve grown unaccustomed to touch that doesn’t bring pain, so…anyway, I am sorry.”

“Understood,” she said, reining in her renewed fury at his mistreatment, “and no apology for protecting yourself is needed. Just another reason that bringing this mage low is now at the top of my list of things to do.”

Tony laughed a little. “Pepper,” he said suddenly. She frowned. “Your name. It should be Pepper. Like the long red fruits from the Copper Isles, that burn to the touch and stimulate the senses. For your red hair too, of course,” he added hastily, as if to walk back from his fleeting openness.

Happy let out a belly laugh. “There! Now you’ve a new name as well. It suits you too. I may have to start calling you Pepper.” 

“Don’t you—" she started to threaten, but her protest died at Tony’s smile. There were, she decided as they waited, far worse things than being called Pepper, if it earned her that sweetly mischievous little grin on his tired face.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had an idea bouncing around inside my skull for a while, about Pepper as a knight rescuing Tony from...something...and when I started to read the most excellent Tortall books I went 'oh! this is the verse that needs to happen in!' There may be a sequel or two, once I've read and absorbed more of that world. Shout out to GoldfishForHire and Starbit for beta reading and helping a new fan of Tortall to be sure all the relevant bits were accurate.


End file.
